Rolling in Glass
My mother was a victim of rape, and I was her child. She could never love me because all she could see was the man who raped her. All she could see was him, my "father". I grew up without motherly love. It was okay. Instead of cooking, she bought me snacks, junk food, just so that she didn't have to be in the same room as me. I was an eternal reminder that she was raped. I didn't blame her, though. My mother went into heroin when I was seven because her depression ran her to the point that she could no longer make herself happy. She gave me more snacks so that she could go do her drugs. Food was my only comfort. After a concerned neighbor called the police, my mother was arrested for drug abuse. They gave me snacks while they sent me away to the orphanage. I used to cry a lot, always calling for my mother, hoping that a sliver of a chance, she would come pick me up. I used to be called "cry baby", but that name faded away as my hopes of seeing my mother again dissappeared. I was finally adopted by a loving family, or so I thought. I was only adopted for financial purposes. I was never sure what it meant, but I was aware that they earned money from taking care of me. They always locked me in my room, always bribing me with snacks so that wouldn't say a word to the neighbors, or the teachers at my new school. As I grew older, my body didn't. I remained the shortest kid in everyone of my classes. It never seemed like a big deal until I hit middle school. At first, it was just names like "shrimp" or "midget", but it just got worse. I used to get shoved into lockers to see if I would fit. And as I never excelled at school, they called me "pea brain". They said that my small brain fit my small body. I was shoved around, called "retard", "small order", all kinds of things. There was a point where I didn't care anymore. That it wasn't worth it, and I pushed away all my emotions, so that it wouldn't hurt anymore. I was never happy, never sad, nothing. My parents would give me snacks to cheer me up, but I never felt anything. I ate them, but I didn't change. My parents stopped trying. They just what was needed to keep me alive so that they would continue to get money. I sat isolated in my room all day. I played video games, read comic books, ate junk food like any normal teenager. But, none of those things made me happy. They were just frivolous activities to occupy my time. After all these years, social services finally came in to check up on me. I guess I did something wrong because they sent me to therapy, and I was some how diagnosed with "anti-social disorder", or whatever the heck it's called. The therapist attempted to make me talk, but she got no where. There was a point where she too, stopped trying. Things went back to the way they used to be. One day, my parents told me my real mother had committed suicide during her rehabilitation. Her depression finally got to her. I didn't say, do, feel anything. My whole body was numb. This weird innate sense told be to run. I ran into my room, my parents didn't follow after. I grabbed my backpack, shoved food, money, and some clothes into it, opened up my window, and jumped out. My feet just started running as soon as they hit the ground. I didn't know where I was heading, and I didn't know why. I just ran. I ran as long as I could until my legs turned to jelly, and passed out on the ground. I woke up with two big, brown eyes staring at me.